Guess Who's Coming to Die?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  I lied. Nothing was okay. My shoes were ruined. My outfit was soaked and covered in wet leaves. My hair was full of who knew what. I had skinned my good palm and banged my sore hand, and both hips ached from landing on sharp rocks. That was definitely not one of my best public moments.

  As I squished back toward the Land Rover through the muddy field, MayBelle spoke behind me. “I’ve got your purse. But are you finished with what you came to talk about? I’m fixing to head out to another site.”

  “We’re finished for now.” I climbed in and settled myself on the seat of the Land Rover, glad we weren’t in her Mercedes. My skirt was clammy under me and streaked with mud. I accepted my poor, ruined clutch and gave MayBelle a sideways glance. “But seriously, can you think of anybody who might have a reason to want to kill Willena?”

  MayBelle barked a short laugh. “Besides almost everybody?” She slammed my door, went around to her own side, and climbed in. As she started the engine, she asked more seriously, “You don’t think it was somebody from outside who found the door unlocked?”

  “It’s hard to believe a stranger would happen to come to the community center in the pouring rain on the off chance they’d find a door open, then go to the ladies’ room on the off chance they’d find somebody there to kill, and win on every count.”

  “Perverts do exist.”

  “What pervert would have had access to Willena’s corkscrew?”

  She steered over the field and headed toward our cars without saying a word.

  I tried again. “You have to admit that getting permission from the commission to build on the wetlands will be a whole lot easier without Willena showing up at meetings to talk about squirrels and raccoons. And without Willena bugging them, it’s not likely that the EPA is going to care what happens to fifteen piddly acres in Hope County.”

  “Darned tooting,” MayBelle agreed cheerfully. She pulled to a stop next to my car and cut her engine. “I need to get on to another project, Judge, but if you’re looking for a bigger house, you couldn’t do better than Oak Hills. It’s going to be gorgeous when it’s done.”

  I was tempted to retort, It’s going to look exactly like thousands of other subdivisions all over America, but I didn’t. I was too wet and grubby to think of much else.

  As I opened the door to my car, MayBelle called, “Keep an eye on Nancy. She’s not the goody-goody she likes to appear.”

  I drove home muddy and miserable, wishing I’d gotten the leather seat covers Joe Riddley had recommended. Would I ever get that red mud out of gray plush?

  Clarinda was gathering up her pocketbook, fixing to leave, when I arrived home. When she saw me she put down the pocketbook, propped both fists on her ample hips, and demanded, “You been swimmin’ in a mud hole? Don’t you recall you put in a perfectly good swimming pool down at the big house that Ridd and Martha said you and the judge could still come down and use anytime you want?” Joe Riddley would always be “the judge” to Clarinda.

  She went on without taking a breath. “And look at that outfit! If the cleaners can get them stains out, it’ll be a miracle. And you might as well drop them shoes in the garbage right now and be done with it. You ain’t never gonna get no use out of them again. What you been up to?”

  I sighed. “You don’t want to know and I don’t want to tell you. Would you call Phyllis and see if she can work me in for a shampoo this afternoon?”

  “What happened to your cell phone? Did you drop it in the mud hole, too?”

  “No, it’s still in the car. But everything else I own is ruined.” I opened my new little clutch purse over the sink and water streamed out. Clarinda took charge of the purse. “I’ll turn the oven on real low and see can we dry out the money and your pictures and such. You get in a hot bath before you catch your death of cold.”

  I didn’t figure I was likely to catch my death of cold in May, but I was too bedraggled to argue. “Phone Phyllis!” I called back as I headed to the tub. “Tell her it’s an emergency.”

  I cannot remember when a shower ever felt so good — or necessary. I went ahead and shampooed my hair. If Phyllis couldn’t see me, I’d have to stay home the rest of the day.

  I stayed under the hot water so long, Clarinda finally banged on the door. “You okay in there? Phyllis says she can work you in if you’ll go right on down. I’m takin’ this here outfit to the cleaners on my way home, and I’ll take the shoes and purse to Guy, but I doubt he’s gonna be able to do a thing with them.” Guy ran the local shoe repair shop.

  “Tell him to do his best. And thanks. I’ll be a new woman.”

  “You gonna be something new, all right, if the judge ever finds out you’re meddling in this here murder,” she prophesied darkly.

  By the time Phyllis had finished with me, I looked better but felt stiff and achy, I was limping from my sore hips, and the day was basically shot. It didn’t help to get a call from Isaac James, our assistant police chief, later that afternoon.

  While Chief Muggins is one of my least favorite officers of the law, Isaac is one of my most favorite. Six feet tall and built to carry his height, Isaac has skin the color of polished mahogany and one of the finest minds I’ve ever known. I sometimes wonder if I would dislike Chief Muggins so much if I didn’t feel so strongly that Isaac should have been given the position back when our city fathers decided to import Charlie from Tennessee.

  “I understand you called in a report on some feral dogs over in Pleasantville this morning and were sighted at Mad Mooney’s bar this afternoon. Are you starting a campaign to clean up that neighborhood?”

  “It could use it. I was over on Good Hope Lane and saw a rat and all kinds of junk lying around in those yards, with little kids out playing in it. I asked Chief Muggins to send some deputies to check it out, but I don’t know if he will.”

  “We can make a sweep.” I heard him writing and knew he was jotting a note on his desk calendar. “But you know as well as I do that as soon as we pick up one truckload of trash and haul one set of owners into court, the rest of the folks out there will be dumping another truckload on the yards.”

  “We still have to try. Now, who told you anything about Mad Mooney’s?”

  “A little jailbird. I had to book Stack Rogers again this afternoon for theft by taking and he mentioned he saw you drinking down at Mad Mooney’s right after lunch.”

  “I was drinking a Co-Cola. Did Sheriff Gibbons hear him?”

  If Buster knew I’d been spotted at Mad Mooney’s, there was no doubt whatsoever that he’d be teasing Joe Riddley about it before suppertime.

  “No, he was out. But seriously, Judge, if you want to tipple after lunch, you can find a more congenial place than Mad Mooney’s.”

  “A more sanitary one, too, I hope.”

  “Clarence runs a pretty clean joint, all things considered. We’ve never cited him for a code violation yet.”

  “Well, the rest of the neighborhood could use an inspection. And Ike? If you see Joe Riddley, don’t mention Mad Mooney’s, okay?”

  “He won’t hear it from me, but you know you can’t keep a secret in this town. I don’t guess you want to tell me what you were doing there, do you?”

  Isaac and I have cooperated on other cases, so I might as well tell him. “I was talking to Dexter, the custodian over at the community center. I’m puzzled about how the front door got unlocked while we were meeting Monday night. Dexter swears he locked it before he went back to his room, but when Cindy went out at the beginning of our break, it was unlocked.”

  When Isaac didn’t say anything for a very long minute, I added, “Do you know if the forensics team has been alerted that Willena may have been poisoned? She was pretty sick in the ladies’ room just before she died.”

  Another long silence. Finally I heard, “The chief is handling that investigation, Judge. Personally.”

  Isaac and I both knew that wasn’t a statement. It was a warning.

  18

  Rain started again in the m
iddle of Thursday night. I heard the first tentative patters, then a sudden rush that meant it was streaming down. I turned over, trying to get comfortable, wishing I were back in the old blue house with its tin porch roof. Rain on the porch roof always sent me to sleep, and tonight I sorely needed sleep. For the second night in a row I had tossed and turned worrying about Walker and Cindy, wherever they were, and all my bones ached.

  It was not the rain but exhaustion that finally put me to sleep just before the alarm went off. I eyed the streaming window sourly. Why had I promised to drive Wilma to Augusta?

  I dressed stiffly, again putting on nicer clothes than I usually wear to work. Joe Riddley gave me a considering look over the breakfast table. “You aren’t running around on me, are you, Little Bit? All this dressing up during the week?”

  I went to fetch the coffeepot. “It would serve you right if I was, the way you sent me off to Scotland by myself. But not today. I just wish it wasn’t raining.”

  His mug stopped halfway to his mouth. “Rain gets in the way of your running around?”

  “No, but I’ve promised to drive Wilma Kenan to Augusta for a meeting. She’s talking to some women’s group about Granddaddy Will.”

  He chewed his toast and thought that over. “Never knew you and Wilma were such particular friends.”

  “We aren’t, but Willena was supposed to drive with her, and she said she didn’t like to drive up by herself. She even managed to get us both dispensation from Charlie to go.”

  “Oh. Has Lincoln retired or has he finally gotten tired of Wilma and quit?”

  “Neither. She said he’d drive, but I thought I’d use the time while she’s speaking to look for new recliners. Clarinda’s been asking when she can have yours.”

  “Did you remind her of the addendum to the tenth commandment, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy employer’s recliner’?”

  “Yeah, but she reminded me of the second greatest commandment, ‘Thou shalt love thy cook as thyself.’ ”

  Our new house was so small, we could see the living room from our dining room table. He eyed his old brown recliner with a thoughtful look, and I could tell he was within a hair of telling me he liked it fine as it was. He surprised me, though. “You get comfortable ones, now. I don’t want to have to go all the way over to Clarinda’s when I want to watch TV.”

  “Come with me,” I urged. “It would make the trip up a whole lot more fun.”

  He reached for his red cap. “For you, maybe. Can’t say I would enjoy that much of Wilma’s company.”

  I didn’t either. While I steered through sheets of rain that made it hard to see the lines between lanes, she talked incessantly about anything under the sun except Willena’s murder. The closest she came to mentioning it was when she said with a shudder, “They are cutting her up. Did you hear that? They are cutting her up to see what killed her. I can’t stand it!”

  “Don’t think about it,” I advised. “She is beyond caring.”

  Her voice was small. “I know.” Then she started talking about how much better Grover was than her former stockbroker, and why I ought to move my account to him. In addition to trying to see the road and avoid a wreck, I also had to come up with replies that were polite without committing me to something I had no intention of doing.

  I have wondered since if it was the coziness of being shut up surrounded by rain or the fact that I couldn’t pay her much attention that kept Wilma talking—almost like a Catholic confessional where you can’t see the priest. Anyway, while most Southern women would never talk about their finances to their casual friends, by the time we reached Augusta I had learned that Wilma, like a lot of people, had lost money during the crash of tech stocks around the turn of the century and blamed that on her old broker. That was why she was now using Grover. Of course, she thought his smile was real sexy, too, and didn’t he have the smokiest blue eyes?

  Reading between the lines, I figured the former broker probably thanked his lucky stars that Wilma had moved her account. From the way she kept repeating, “I told him . . .” I deduced that she had tried to micromanage her account and that her poor broker was probably now recuperating at the state mental hospital over in Milledgeville. I hoped Grover was prepared for what working with Wilma would entail.

  It was a relief to drop her off and go looking for recliners. Even with the rain, shopping in the middle of a workday made me feel as carefree as those boys I’d seen the day before playing hooky from school. I found recliners I liked in the second store I visited, arranged to have them delivered the following Monday, and discovered I still had nearly an hour before I needed to pick up Wilma. I drove back to that part of town and, spying a coffee shop, decided to treat myself to a cup of cappuccino and a biscotti. Myrtle’s in Hopemore has great coffee and chocolate pie, but her menu doesn’t stretch to cappuccino or biscotti.

  I settled at a table by the window and watched droplets run down the windowpane while I sipped the frothy drink from its thick paper cup. After a nibble at the biscotti, I peered around to make sure nobody was watching and I dunked it. There I was, pulling my dripping biscotti from my cappuccino, when I spotted Grover in a booth over at the side. Fortunately, he didn’t spot me. He was leaning across the table listening intently to a companion I could not see. While I watched, a slender hand with bright red nails reached out to touch his. A diamond on the hand looked as big as a blueberry.

  Seemed like Wilma was right — Grover and Willena had been nothing but friends. Or was he the kind of man who flitted from one rich woman to another, so long as he could manage her account?

  Reminding myself that it was no business of mine whom Grover had coffee with on a rainy business day, I turned back to contemplate the streaming scene beyond my window.

  However, when I’d drained the last dreg and brushed my crumbs neatly into a napkin, I had to toss the cup and napkin, and the only trash can was near their table. As I approached, I heard a husky voice murmuring, “So you think I’m safe?”

  Grover spotted me before he replied. It would have been rude of me not to speak.

  “Fancy running into you here,” I exclaimed.

  From the other side of the table, Sadie Lowe Harnett gave me a wide, lazy smile through lips as scarlet as her nails. “Why, hey, Judge. What brings you to Augusta?”

  She wore a short black skirt and a red cotton sweater cut to call maximum attention to her magnificent bosom.

  “I drove Wilma up for a meeting and did a little shopping,” I told her. “And you?”

  She put up one hand and touched the hair behind her left ear. As a girl I used to want hair like that, black and shiny. Today it was piled on top of her head with little curls cascading down her neck. “I came up to see Grover.” Not by so much as a blush did she reveal that she’d been caught with Horace one day before. But then, the woman had acted in soaps. Maybe she thought that in real life women had to have an affair with any male who came on their horizons. I remembered, too, that she had left Hopemore in the first place because she had gotten herself taken into custody several times in tenth grade for having sex in the backseat of a car down near the water tank. Her parents were already lost in the alcoholic haze that would eventually lead one of them to burn down their mobile home with both of them in it, so our juvenile judge and Joe Riddley — who was a magistrate at the time and concerned about troubled teens — put their heads together and arranged for Sadie Lowe to go live with an aunt in Atlanta.

  Now she gestured toward papers on the table between them. “He’s such a sweetie about helping me figure out what to do with all my money.” Her voice was more breath than sound, and she gave Grover a smile more appropriate for a bedroom than a business meeting.

  He turned the color of a boiled lobster. If he wasn’t careful, he could wind up in hot water, too. Still, his mama had raised him right. He slid out of the booth and took my hand with a smile like he’d been hoping to see me all morning. “MacLaren! Good to see you again. Everything going well in Hopemore?”<
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  I have to admit, that threw me. “As well as can be expected the week of a murder,” I agreed, “but I’m still trying to figure out how the dickens that door to the community center got unlocked Monday night. Do you have a key?”

  Grover looked puzzled.

  Like hot air, Sadie Lowe rushed in to fill the vacuum. “I still can’t believe it about poor Willena, can you? I mean, who would do such a thing?”

  “Do what?” Grover looked from her to me, then back at her in confusion. Sadie Lowe ran her tongue across her upper lip and waited for me to tell him. “I’ve been trying to call her all week, but she doesn’t answer,” he added.

  I didn’t know if Grover had been romantically involved with Willena, but she had certainly been his client. He didn’t need to hear this news standing up.

  “Could we sit down?” I moved toward the bench he had vacated. He stepped back to let me slide in ahead of him. When he was sitting beside me, I said, “I’m surprised Chief Muggins hasn’t already called you. Somebody killed Willena during the break at our meeting Monday night.”